


Tomorrow Never Knows

by 221Btls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:37:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the millisecond before John pulls the trigger something in the back of his brain registers that this is not the enemy, he needs to stand down. But the flash of recognition doesn’t surface fast enough to stop the weapon from firing. Doesn't come fast enough to shift its trajectory out of the path of harm."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow Never Knows is a song on the Beatles Revolver album.

_0147 Today_

  
Standing in the far corner of the dark flat, gun aimed at the front door ready to take out the intruder quietly picking the lock, John spreads his legs and steadies his arms to brace himself for the recoil.  The soft glow of light from the street barely reaches him, not strong enough to reach the doorway.  He can't see the doorknob turn, but he hears the faint squeak as it does and watches the silhouette of a dark figure following the door as it opens.   
  
In the millisecond before he pulls the trigger something in the back of his brain registers that this is not the enemy, he needs to stand down. But the flash of recognition doesn’t surface fast enough to stop the weapon from firing. Doesn't come fast enough to shift its trajectory out of the path of harm.

John hears the impact of the bullet as it hits flesh, the swift exhale from his victim who is stunned at the intrusion of his body, the breathless "John" escaping from startled lips before the intruder crumples unconscious to the floor. He sees the body falling, knowing in one horrifying instant that the object of his assault is not Moran, but the man he has missed so desperately, the man who two years ago gave back to him the reason to live. This man whose life he may have just taken is the man he would give his own life for.  
  
John rushes to the wall, flipping the switch; the light reveals the evidence of his mistake and he can barely breathe as full realization hits him that he has just shot Sherlock.  Christ, it’s Sherlock.

His stomach roils and he pushes down the urge to empty its contents. With quick determination he sets aside any thought of the surging emotions that threaten to overtake him, there will be time later to examine them. This is the time to focus on making sure his best friend does not die at his hands, the hands that are meant to heal, not injure someone he so deeply cared, cares, about.   
  
Dropping to the floor beside Sherlock, unconcerned that he is kneeling in the pool of blood that has begun to form there, with steady hands he quickly unbuttons Sherlock's coat and opens the flap, then unbuttons his shirt to gain unfettered access to the gunshot wound. Sherlock is lying on his side, breathing shallow but steady. As John knew it would, the bullet travelled all the way through Sherlock's torso, making a clean exit wound; he gives silent thanks that it hit no major organs.   
  
Hurrying to the bathroom to gather towels and to the bedroom for pillows, he rushes back to Sherlock. He places one thick towel at the wound on the back injury, gently rolling Sherlock over so his own weight will serve as pressure to help slow the bleeding. Wedging his hand between Sherlock's head and the floor, John cradles it to place a pillow underneath, watching the still, pale face as he does so. Then firmly pressing another towel to the front wound, he closes the coat to keep Sherlock warm, keeping his hand on the towel. Wrapping the fingers of his other hand around a cool wrist, John feels the slow pulse beneath, counting, reassuring himself that the man, though gravely injured, is not in immediate danger of dying. Somewhere outside himself he realizes that if Sherlock stops breathing, he will be in danger of doing so, too.  
  
Not taking his eyes off Sherlock, which seems a physical impossibility, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls 999. "I need an ambulance at 222 Baker Street for a gunshot victim, 36 year-old male, unconscious, bleeding fairly heavily, pulse weak but steady. I've stabilized him but he needs immediate surgery". He pauses as he listens to the voice questioning him from the other end of the line.

“Sherlock Holmes. I...I am the one that shot him, name's John Watson". Listening further he responds again: "I had reason to believe he was another man, a hired gunman who may still be in the area. Call DI Lestrade, he will explain it to you."  
  
Hanging up with emergency services, John makes another call, one that he's surprised he's not more reluctant to make. Maybe the numbness he's feeling is explains it. He doesn't really care.   
  
When the phone is answered on the other side after barely one ring, John knows it's unnecessary to announce himself. "I've just shot Sherlock..." "Of course it was an accident! I thought it was Moran coming through the door. It's a serious injury, but I believe he'll make it. The ambulance and police are on their way." Needing to add one more thing, he says “You're going to have to explain to me how this happened, Mycroft. I know you have to have known he's alive. And after all this you'll be lucky if you're not in hospital with him!" He fleetingly wishes he could have the satisfaction of slamming a phone down, but his attention quickly shifts back to the unmoving form beside him.   
  
He searches for the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest that will give evidence of a life that continues; some of his fear subsides as he catches the movement once again.

With nothing left to do but continue applying pressure to the wounds while waiting for emergency services, John feels the suppressed emotions and questions start to push at him, threatening to knock him over.

Sherlock is alive. 

Sherlock is ALIVE.

Not just alive after just being shot by his bullet, but alive to walk through the door in the first place.  How… _how_?  He watched him jump off of St. Barts, saw his lifeless body in the morgue, attended his funeral.  There hasn’t been a day in the last 6 months that John has not _grieved_ Sherlock’s death, and now he walks through the flat door only to nearly be killed?  In _any_ reality that does not make sense.  

Anger.  Happiness. Hurt. It’s all wrapped together in a confused knot. John doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, whether to shout with joy or punch the wall.  Instead he looks down at his friend, wraps his bloody hand around Sherlock’s motionless one, allowing himself to absorb, at a cellular level, that he is here.  Alive.

Jesus

“Don’t you dare die on me again, you bloody bastard” he implores Sherlock, his voice catching, the moisture in his eyes threatening to fall.

Just this once he would give anything to hear Sherlock call him an idiot.

He doesn’t.


	2. Sherlock

_2245 Last night_

Sherlock paces the small room, the tips of his long, manicured index fingers resting on his bottom lip, hands lightly knit together.  He is fully dressed, coat and scarf waiting on the back of the expensively upholstered chair just a few feet away. 

He hears a small explosion and the resulting rattle of window panes. No doubt it can be heard for blocks, but he knows it is much closer than that.  Allowing himself a small smile that barely lifts the side of his mouth, he counts to thirty before moving towards the back door, grabbing his outer garments on the way.  Opening the door, he slips out into the night.

 

_1705  Two days ago_

“Mycroft, I am not a child”, Sherlock sneers.  “I don’t need a bloody babysitter and I certainly don’t need guards”.

The unassuming cottage has been useful and it has been _quite_ entertaining to watch Mycroft’s married lover arrive at the main house several times a week dressed as a charwoman.  And not just  any married woman, but the wife of the Austrian Ambassador at that.  Delightful.  Despite this, he needs Mycroft to loosen the reigns so he has room to maneuver.

Mycroft, looking down his nose at him in the way only a Holmes can seem to do, replied “They are not guards” drawing out the last word as though it bored him to even have to say it.  “They are security, my dear brother, charged to protect you, not to imprison you.  Though I must say, if there is anyone in need of a guard…”  He let the sentence hang, dripping with implication.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns his face away from his brother in annoyance, his foot tapping agitatedly on the thick rug.

“Still, with Moran yet accounted for” Mycroft continued with exaggerated patience, “we must keep you, shall I say, contained.  I know I needn’t remind you of the consequences if Moran gets hint that you are alive.  Unless, that is, you have lost your desire to be reunited with your…friend”.

“Of course, I haven’t” Sherlock snapped.

It has been six months since he has worked on a real case, six months since he has conducted an experiment.  His life has become a tedium of disguises, subterfuge, and endless web surfing. As frustrating as it has been, the most difficult part of it all is that it has been sixth months since he has seen John. 

To Sherlock’s great surprise he has discovered he misses John.  Odd.  When making his plans for that fateful day on top of St. Bart’s, it hadn’t occurred to him that his personal involvement would extend beyond his concern for John’s safety.  But he finds he _misses_ being told that something is a “bit not good.”  He misses the exasperated sighs when John would find an ear or human intestine in the fridge.  He misses being called “Amazing!”  But most of all he misses the companionship of someone, who for once in his life, doesn’t ask him to be anyone other than himself.

Watching Mycroft delicately lift his cup of tea to his lips and takes a sip, Sherlock grudgingly admits to himself that Mycroft’s resources have been invaluable in hunting down the first two assassins; they were terminated with little fuss, but Moran is another story.   Trained in combat and espionage, he used those skills to disappear so thoroughly not even the British government or Sherlock could trace his whereabouts. Until now.  

Sherlock has no intention of divulging that he knows Moran’s next, and final, move. The fight for John’s life is personal; he is not going to leave it to government-paid thugs, who have no personal stake in the outcome, to interfere.

Fidgeting under the quiet stare of his brother, Sherlock licks his lips and tries another tactic.

 “I know it has to be tedious to have to look after your brother.”  Smoothing down his trousers, he crosses his legs and begins to pick at the nubs on the armchair.  “I’ll make you a deal, Mycroft.  You call off your men and I promise I’ll behave.  You _know_ how hard it is for me to relax and having your goons about makes it next to impossible.  I’ll even quit calling your lover a harlot, though you know very well she is.  Agreed?” he finishes, eyebrow cocked, doing his best to swallow the disdain he has for practically having to beg.

‘’And how do I benefit from this little arrangement?  There’s very little difference whether you’re “behaving” or not and I’m not the least bit bothered by your childish name calling”.  Mycroft tips his head to the side and offers a patronizing smile. 

Pulling his antique silver pocket watch out, he sighs.  “Think on that little brother.  I must be off, the Prince of Wales, well….”

Sherlock doesn’t get up to let him out, sightlessly watching the retreating figure, already lost in thought.  Waiting a few moments, he pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping the screen to bring up the text he received just an hour earlier.

Before Sherlock met with Moriarty on the roof of St. Bart’s, he’d equipped his most reliable homeless network contacts with pre-paid smartphones; he’d wanted to make sure they were able to contact him by any means necessary and to be able to access and transmit data.  Acting as his eyes and ears, the network has provided considerable information, this being the most valuable yet. 

Looking down at his phone he reads the brief text…“New tenant at 222 Baker St”.  He smiles and takes a deep, satisfied breath.  He knows _exactly_ who the tenant is.  It is no coincidence that just days after he planted information he is alive that the flat directly across from 221b, a flat that has been vacant for 3 years, suddenly now has an occupant.

The long wait is almost over; soon he will be back home.  Soon he will be back home with John. 

His heart beats a little faster.

__________

The internet was a wonderful development; one can find all manners of useful information on the electronic highway.  How long you would have to walk to burn the calories of a gourmet French meal at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon .  The DNA sequence of bats.  How to construct a bomb….

___________

_1426  Yesterday_

Sherlock adjusts the timer on the explosive to set off at 2245, an hour the occupant of the main house will be settled for the night and no one will be near enough the downstairs guest bath to be injured.  The diversion will lure security away from the cottage allowing him the opportunity to keep his “appointment” with Moran. 

 

_0147  Today_

Under cover of the dark night he lightly ascends the steps, reaching the flat door.  Pulling his tools out of his pocket, Sherlock’s gloved hands make quick work of picking the lock.  Turning the knob, he hears a slight squeak.  He pauses, continuing only after reassuring himself that by his calculations Moran has not yet reached the flat. He quietly pushes the door open, following it.

Eyes already acclimated to the dim light in the hallway, he is startled to see a figure in the corner of the room.  Before he can start to retreat, recognition flashes in his mind; at the same moment he hears the sharp report of a gun.  The impact to his body is like nothing he has ever known, forcing the air from his lungs in a solid rush.  It all happens far too quickly to feel any pain.

From somewhere he hears, possibly from his own lips, a strangled gasp. “John!” 

The blackness closes around him...


	3. Mycroft

_0925 Yesterday_  
  
Mycroft sits in his leather-upholstered chair at the Diogenes Club, hands posing in the trademark Holmes brothers’ steeple, the Daily Mail unattended on his lap. Deep in thought, he hears, but doesn't acknowledge the guest who is escorted into the quiet room.  
  
Greg gives a small cough to politely call attention to his presence. “Hello, Mycroft.  Long time.”  
  
Nothing but his eyes move as Mycroft slowly looks up, affirming Greg has his attention. Lifting his head, he places the newspaper deliberately onto the table beside him. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Inspector? Please, won't you have a seat", as he gestures to the matching chair across from him, not bothering to rise. He rests his arms onto the chair arms and crosses his legs. The uninformed visitor would be forgiven for mistaking him for minor royalty given the imperial air emanating from him.    
  
"Well," Greg clears his throat, as he removes his trench coat and sits down. "I've been given orders to tell my team to lay off the Baker Street surveillance, the first time it’s happened since Sherlock's death. So I thought to myself, who has the kind of pull to tell Scotland Yard what or what not to do?  Naturally my first thought was you. Mind telling me what's going on here?"  The Inspector for the most part isn’t intimidated by the by the man who, with faux humility, calls his occupation a minor position in the British government, but he does deliberately assume a relaxed demeanor, doing his best to keep the other man from adopting unnecessary defensiveness.  
  
Offering Greg his most insincere smile, Mycroft tilts his head and says "I merely suggested that you might have more constructive activities to pursue than to watch the flat of… a deceased individual."  At this, Mycroft lowers his eyes and gives a constipated grimace, as though he's suffering a twinge of discomfort.  Cynically, Greg can’t help but think it is a practiced performance, as opposed to genuine emotion.

Appearing to carefully choose just the right words, Mycroft continues, "I know the Yard is suffering from budget constraints so I am simply doing my part to ease the strain". The insincere smile reappears, seeming to await a challenge.  
  
"Very thoughtful of you, but I have to say we are well-equipped to determine the needs of our own department.  Not to seem unappreciative for your _concern,_ but would you like to share what is really going on here?" Greg does his best not to squirm in his seat under the vaguely reptilian stare.  Geez, he thinks, what is it about the Holmes genes that gave them both the laser-like ability to see right through you?  "My understanding has been that we’re keeping an eye on John until all of Moriarty's men are... dispensed with. And I'm not aware that Moran has been neutralized, as it were."   
  
"It's nothing to concern yourself with Gregory. Your department has been supremely helpful, but with the amount of time that has passed, we've determined that the threat is no longer of issue. Perhaps Moran has met an untimely demise in some other fashion; surely he would have made a move by now if he was still a threat. It's merely a practical response to the lack of activity we've been able to detect."  
  
Greg senses there is information withheld, but he knows that the remaining Holmes is not going to share that information if this is indeed the case. "Well then, consider it done; I'll tell my men that they are no longer needed on that detail. Do let the Superintendent know if you'll be requiring our assistance in the future." He rises from his seat feeling uneasy about the turn of events, but he has little say in the matter and so will wait it out to see what happens. Pausing before turning to leave the room, he can't help but ask a question he’s certain there won’t be a forthright answer to.  "You doing alright?",  softening his tone, but not too much, knowing compassion would likely be met with derision.  
  
"There’s no need to concern yourself", is the almost terse reply. “Given his…proclivities, I was almost surprised he was with us as long as he was. Let me see you out", he says as he finally rises from his chair to emphasize his desire to end the visit.

Greg has to bite back the harsh retort that is begging to leave his lips; Christ he’s a cold bastard, he thinks.  But bite it back he does; carefully choosing his battles is one of the traits that earned Greg Detective Inspector status. Instead, he offers as evenly as he is able, "No bother, I know the way", as he retrieves his coat and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.  
  
Alone again, Mycroft pulls his phone out, speed dialing contact #3. Speaking into the receiver, he instructs “Operation Red Eye, oh one hundred."  
  
Putting his phone back in his pocket, he resumes the thoughtful pose that had been interrupted when the detective arrived.

 

_2245  Last Night_

Quickly waking at the shudder of his bed, no doubt caused by the deep _boom_ resonating in his ears, Mycroft pulls his sleep mask off and props himself up, waiting for a follow-up.  There is none.

“Sherlock!” he mutters angrily under his breath.

 


	4. The Greek

_1008  Yesterday_  
  
Dimitri Kissel pulls the skin tight on his throat, guiding the razor over his Adam's apple. Wiping the last of the shaving foam off his face, he throws the towel in the corner, unconcerned that he misses the hamper. Appraising himself in the mirror, he approves of the lean muscular body and the still thick brown hair he sees there and thoughtfully turns his attention to the panorama out the bathroom window. His house, settled in the craggy hillside of Fira, offers a view unparalleled in its beauty. Dimitri has travelled to many of the world's most beautiful and intriguing locations in his in life, but none compare with the Greek island, Santorini, that he calls home.   
  
The chiming doorbell announcing an arrival is followed closely by the appearance of the houseboy. There’s no need check the credentials of the visitor, the masseuse is a frequent caller.

Adroitly setting up the massage table in the great room, the masseuse prepares for her client, warming the towels and the oil, lighting the incense. Dimitri has used Nikola's services for a number of years now; he appreciates her beauty and her skilled hands, but most of all he values her for her silence. Her predecessors had always been too flirtatious, too eager to engage him in conversation, when he knows that small talk was isn’t a weakness he can afford. To continue to be successful in his line of work requires a high level of caution; the smallest slip could mean death. And he is not yet ready to die.

His is a solitary life.  When he was a young man Dimitri had planned for what most men of his age and financial status desired in their lives~ a beautiful, devoted wife, children.  When his career plans subsequently changed, he knew he couldn’t afford to bring anyone into his life that would compromise his ability to focus.

Early in his career he had been a successful businessman, but found the work tedious and unsatisfying.   One pivotal day nine years ago he would see his life take a much different, infinitely more interesting, direction.  Raul, his longtime army buddy, had approached him as a go between with an intriguing offer.  With his well-earned reputation for taking out the enemy with unheard of range and accuracy, Dimitri was being offered £100,000 to eliminate the brother-in-law of a sheik in Dubai.  Truth be told, he didn’t have much moral objection to the offer and he knew with little doubt that he was not meant to live in an office building 60 hours a week. He took the offer and didn’t look back.

  
As strong hands knead the muscles made tense by the demands of his last job, he lies there, eyes closed, breathing steady as his thoughts turn to the events of the last few days which will require him to head back to London for the first time in 6 months. He has a job to finish, a job that he has long dismissed as complete.  
  
Dr. John H. Watson.   
  
John Watson has remained above ground to see another day dawn solely because Sherlock Holmes was dead, but it appears that this particular dead man is very much alive. Inconvenient.  Knowing Moriarty is dead doesn’t release Dimitri from his contract; he is a man of integrity and will follow through with his word~ if  Sherlock Holmes is alive he cannot allow John Watson to live.  
  
Not bothering to wrap the towel around his waist, Dimitri lowers himself from the table and dismisses Nikola, padding naked to his bedroom to prepare himself for his trip. He crosses the room to the large safe in the corner and enters the combination. 

Pulling out the rifle case, he reflexively opens it to make sure the silencer and tripod are there, gliding his fingers almost lovingly along the smooth metal of the barrel. The Heckler & Koch PSG1A1 sniper rifle is one of the most accurate short-range rifles in the world and his weapon of choice on most of his jobs.  He assembles the weapon and aligns his practiced eye with the scope, appreciating the weight of the rifle in his hands.  Carefully placing it back in the custom-made case that disguises its identity, Dimitri sets it by the bedroom door.

Heading back to the safe, he retrieves the large file folder containing the multitude of secure identities; he chooses one that has sat there unused for many months: Sebastian Moran.  It’s his habit to use one identity per client; perhaps it’s not the wisest choice, but he finds it helps keep his clients sorted.  Since Moriarty will no longer be requiring his services after he terminates Dr. Watson, this will be the last time he has need of this particular identity.  
  
 _1801  Yesterday_  
  
Moran descends the steps of the chartered jet that lands him at the private London City Airport. Looking upward, he allows himself a brief moment to abhor the greyness and the sudden chill caused by the damp air. He can never understand the level of tolerance it must take to live in such a dispirited climate.   He already longs for his journey back to Greece.

Taking a private car to the safehouse he keeps as his London base, he enters the sparsely furnished flat and unpacks the small overnight bag that is all he will need for the brief trip.  After taking a long shower, he settles down for a brief nap to refresh himself for the activity that will come later tonight.  
  
His associate in London has laid the ground-work for him: rented the flat across the street from Dr. Watson, moved the “renter’s" furnishings in, mapped out his routes, both into and out of the flat that will serve as his “sniper’s nest”. It wouldn't take someone of his skills to carry out this mission, he could easily subcontract it, but he doesn't want to risk anything going awry; it would tarnish the reputation he’s worked so hard to build.  

  
_0145  Today_

Moran pulls his wallet out and pays the cabbie, including a generous tip.  Having taken the precaution of being let out a reasonable distance from his destination, he walks the remaining 10 blocks toward 222 Baker Street. He listens to the sounds of the city, busy even at this time of night. Avoiding a small group of intoxicated pub crawlers headed home, he proceeds purposefully down the street.  As he rounds a corner into the dark alleyway behind the flat, his skin prickles as his sixth sense tells him he may not be alone. He pauses, eying the area around him, sets down his case, and removes the Glock 17 from his shoulder holster as a precaution.  Peering into the dark he raises his weapon, spotting the small red dot that is trained on him.  Knowing in that moment that he will never know anything again, he takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger.  It is the last breath he will ever take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to worry, the boys will be back in the next chapter. I miss them.


	5. John

_0209 Today_  
  
What seems like hours is in actuality only about 12 minutes. 12 minutes that can mean the difference between life and death. It is incomprehensible that Sherlock is alive; the thought of losing him again is even more incomprehensible.

John hears the ambulance’s siren as it arrives on Baker St. He hears the pounding of footsteps as the medics rush up the stairs, earnest in their mission to save a man's life.  Sherlock could be anybody to them, but to John he is essential.  It is only by a minor miracle that he himself is alive to witness this, he doesn’t know how he survived Sherlock’s death. 

  
John doesn't move until the medics are inside the flat and stooping down to tend to Sherlock. Not wanting to release his pressure on the wound, he waits until he absolutely has to let go. Though he knows that he could hamper their efforts if he doesn't detach himself, he is still reluctant to break his connection with Sherlock, his dread telling him that if he lets go of Sherlock's hand, takes his eyes off him, he may never be near his dearest friend again. Perhaps it is all a dream, a horrifying one, yes, but being able to touch Sherlock is his only concrete assurance that he isn't dreaming, that Sherlock is really here.   
  
"John."  
  
"John" He hears his name called again, gently, but more insistently this time. He feels a hand on his shoulder as he hears Lestrade say "Let ‘em do their job, mate".   
  
"Greg", John says in a voice that sounds a hundred years old. He straightens up slowly with aching knees and moves back a few feet, swaying slightly as he stands there. Greg leads him by his arm to the nearby chair, guiding him until he’s safely seated.

John's eyes don’t move from the scene in front of him as the medics remove Sherlock's ruined scarf, coat, and shirt, assess his wounds, lift him on to the gurney.  Finally they insert a needle into his arm before attaching an IV bag.  The blood transfusion will have to wait until they get to the hospital.  
  
Even as a doctor, John, doesn't think he's ever seen a living face that pale before, and his heart hurts at the sight of his friend looking so fragile.  He struggles to hold back a sob.  It is all too close to the horrifying scene he witnessed all those months ago and has re-lived in his mind time and time again.  
  
Greg crouches down beside John, resting his arms on his knees, careful not to touch John’s bloody clothes.  He stares with John at the figure on the gurney.  “Christ. That really _is_ Sherlock isn’t it.”  He shakes his head in disbelief.  “I about ran over a guy in the road when the call came in. How’s he doing?”

John retrieves one of the towels he didn’t use, wiping his face, then his hands.  “I don’t know Greg, I don’t think I know anything right now... except the bullet didn’t hit anything major, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”  Taking a look at Sherlock’s thin frame he adds “and from the looks of it, he’s been worse than usual at eating right, not that he was ever any good at it in the first place.”

John shakes his head, exhaling heavily, grief and sadness sharply painted on his face.  “Christ, Greg, I don’t know how I can deal with this.  Not again.”

“Hey.  You know Sherlock’s too obstinate to die.  Not that I can wrap my head around this just yet, but it seems he did survive his last run in with death and I lay odds on that he will with this one, too.”  Greg gives him an encouraging squeeze on the knee.  Damn the blood, comforting his friend is more important than the bother of having to wash his hands.

“Does Mycroft know what’s happened here?”

A small rage builds up in John at the sound of Mycroft’s name.  He stiffly tells Greg “Yeah, I called him.  He’s bloody lucky he wasn’t in the same room.  I appreciate the fact that he let me in on Moran’s plans and was going to let me do the dirty work, but, dammit!  He should have told me about…about...”  He hates that he can’t bring himself to say Sherlock’s name.

As the two men watch the medics carefully clean and dress Sherlock’s wounds, getting ready for transport, Greg sighs, regretting his next words.  “You know I have to ask you some questions.  And I’d like to do it before anyone else gets here.”

As though he doesn't hear him, John gives a slightly hysterical laugh and tells him “You know what I thought Greg?  I remember thinking, what if Sherlock is still alive?  What if it miracle of all miracles he walked into our flat again.  More than once in my head I thought if that turned out to be true I would punch him…or I would shoot the bloody git.”  John’s sob did escape this time.   

  
Collecting himself, giving a small nod, "Go ahead" John finally replied, still not moving his eyes to look at the DI. "I'm not anything near thinking clearly at the moment, but I can answer a couple of questions.”  He looks puzzled for a moment then asks Greg “But you _were_ kept in the loop about Moran being in town, right?"  
  
“No”, Greg says as pulls a chair over to sit down properly, he’s getting too old for this stooping business.  “You know we've had surveillance in place since we found out about the snipers, but we were called off today.  I went over to see Mycroft at his club, he said he talked to the Yard about taking us off due to “budget issues”.  I knew there was something fishy about it.  I wonder why he did it, from the looks of things he could have used our help.  I’m sorry, John.”

“I don’t blame you, Greg.  You know Mycroft as well as I do.  There’s an agenda behind everything he does and the less others know about it, the more control he has.  I have to give him the benefit of the doubt though, he’s usually spot on.  But I can say this, no matter the motive, I’m going to deck him next time I see; he lied to me about… Sherlock…” The name felt foreign on his tongue yet welcome at the same time; he couldn't remember the last time he’d said the name out loud.   

Greg chuckled.  “If I’m around, I promise not to see anything.  On the other hand, maybe I’ll hold him in place for you so you can give him a solid one.”

He could see he’d lost what little attention of John’s that he had; the medics were starting down the stairs.  John bolted out of his chair, running after them without a look back.


	6. John

Tomorrow

John slowly wakes. He can feel something brushing slowly through his hair. When it gets to the crown of his head it repeats, starting again at his temple. Comforting. He is still groggy enough that he doesn't know what it is, but it is soothing, so he doesn't much care. He’s so tired. He just lies there for bit, the motion disappearing as he starts to stir. Squinting at the light, when his eyes open he sees white, lots of white. Hospital, then. Right. With that thought, reality comes rushing back to him and his heart skips a beat as he remembers. 

"I can't imagine my lap makes a very comfortable pillow, but then I've no doubt you're exhausted" comes the rich baritone that John thought he would never hear again. It’s a little dry from disuse in the last day, but it will do. It will do.

John turns towards the voice from where he has somehow found himself using Sherlock's thigh as a poor excuse for a pillow, and allows his eyes to examine his friend. His skin has pinked up a bit, still pale, but the deathly pallor is gone. His eyes, alert despite their obvious tiredness, are bluer than John recalls. The doctor in him can't resist the compulsion to reach for Sherlock's wrist~ pulse, normal. Absent mindedly he doesn't let Sherlock's wrist go, letting it remain resting in his hand.

Oddly, he can’t think of anything to say. Well, he can think of a number of things to say, but as he tries them out in his head, they sound slightly ridiculous. How are you (how do you think I am? I’m in pain.). Sorry I shot you (oh, it’s alright, made a boring day more interesting). Do you have any idea how much I've missed you and how every morning when I woke up I was surprised I’d made it another day? Come to think of it, that one’s not so ridiculous, but a bit heavy for a man waking up from surgery. 

He’s been with Sherlock every moment since the incident on Baker Street, excepting the time he was in surgery. During those hours, too exhausted to sleep, too anxious for his friend, he paced the waiting room, drinking cup after cup of wretched dispenser coffee.

When Mycroft arrived at the hospital, looking more human than he’d ever seen him, even though he was reliably dressed in a three piece suit, he couldn’t follow through on his threats to deck him when he saw him. He didn’t know if it was because Mycroft looked every bit the worried brother or because it really wasn’t worth it to him anymore. Sherlock was all that mattered.

“How are you, John?” Mycroft asked as he surveyed the blood encrusted clothing John hadn’t had the opportunity to change out of.

John noticed he didn’t ask how Sherlock was, but no doubt with his connections he already knew. 

“Tired. Still a little shell shocked, but good, good…condsidering.”

Mycroft examined the point on the floor where it met his umbrella tip. Looking up to meet John’s eyes, he offered gravely “The operation we set up fell through, as you’ve no doubt discerned. I’m not blaming him, but Sherlock managed to outwit his security and made it to the rendezvous point by accessing an old cellar system we were unaware of. If it’s any consolation, Moran is dead, unfortunately, as is one of my best agents.”

Mycroft’s next words seemed to take some effort. “I do apologize, John, for the ordeal you've been through. It was never my intent to see any harm come to either you or Sherlock.” Sincerity would never be one of Mycroft’s trademarks, but this was as close as John had ever heard it come. 

Listening to Mycroft’s humble words, John felt magnanimous; apologies didn’t fall easily from the lips of a Holmes. “I won’t say it’s alright, because it isn't, but I understand that you would never purposely put your brother in harm’s way. I just wish it had gone differently.”

John sat down on the stiff hospital chair, collapsing in on himself. Taking a deep breath, he had to ask. “Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t think I can handle all the details at the moment” he said as he tiredly leaned his head back against wall, “but I need to know why Sherlock has been… I don’t know how to put it, dead all this time”. He tightened at the word. It was still a word that held too many unpleasant memories and too much fear for his friend currently in surgery.

Mycroft took a seat near John. He had always held an unspoken regard for the ex-soldier. It wasn’t easy being associated with any Holmes he knew, but to have lived day in and day out with his brother, essentially assigning himself as his protector, certainly earned his respect and gratitude. 

He cleared his throat before he spoke. “To put it simply, he did it for you, John. The only reason the hit men did not carry through on their missions that day was because they believed Sherlock had died. Had they thought he lived, you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would not be here today. Such were Moriarty’s instructions”.

John thought this over. His belief had been that the hit men were targeted by Mycroft out of revenge. Archaic to be sure, but he had written it off to Mycroft’s position and the fact that it was his only brother that was involved. 

“So he faked his death to save the three of us”, he said thoughtfully.

Mycroft’s condescendingly gave John a look that said “Come now, you can’t be that ignorant.” He restrained himself from uttering those words and explained “No, John. However important Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are to Sherlock, there is only one person he would put his life on the line for. He’s spent the last six months hunting down Moran so he could assure your safety and go back home to Baker Street.”

John took a deep breath in and tried to absorb what Mycroft said. He shook his head in disbelief at the profound chance Sherlock had taken and the lengths he had gone to. For him. Idiot.

Sitting beside Sherlock’s bed as he recalls that conversation, John moves his hand from Sherlock’s wrist down to his hand, gently embracing it in gratitude. Meeting Sherlock’s weary eyes, he knows no words are needed.


	7. Sherlock

_Tomorrow_

_Standing on the rooftop edge of St. Barts, only moments before having believed he had won the game with Moriaty, he found himself having been the one outwitted.  Throwing his phone to the side, feeling the foreign moisture of a tear falling to his cheek as he told John good-bye, he leaned over the edge of the building and with arms spread wide, swiftly fell the four stories to the unforgiving concrete below.  He could feel his bones crush against the hard surface, internal organs jarred beyond the ability to be of further use to him, before he mercifully passed from the world._

Sherlock eyes fly open with a start; his heart races.  A thin veil of sweat covers his face and neck.  The curtains that fold across the window shield his eyes from the worst of the daylight, but still they sting from the unpleasant intrusion. 

For months he has been unable to escape the nightmares that have disturbed many attempts at sleep.  He lies there, willing his body to ease the anxiety. 

His eyes coming into focus, he surveys the room.  He can hear footsteps busily tapping across the floor outside in the hall, voices that make no concession to the fact that this is obviously a hospital where people are recuperating.  The question is, why is _he_ recuperating?

He recalls the sound of gunfire and feeling the dull throbbing in his side (it would have been worse, but he presumes from the IV bag hanging next to his bed he was kindly being administered some variant of a pain killer) concludes that he had been shot. 

That doesn’t explain the weight on his thigh that renders his leg immobile.  Looking down, he sees John in the chair beside him, slumped over, asleep on his leg. Oh.

John.  His John.  

Not wanting to disturb him, he closes his eyes again and relaxes into the pillow. 

Sherlock had never been prone to anything approaching self-reflection, that was a wasteful preoccupation for ordinary people. Had never given any thought to who he was or what his purpose in life was.  A purpose, had he considered it, he fulfilled in an exemplary fashion. 

Nonetheless, in the fallout of that fateful day at St. Bart’s, when everything familiar was torn away from him, he found himself assessing his life in a depth he hadn’t known he was capable. 

It began in those few brief moments that Sherlock stood in the balance between life and possible death.  The most ordinary, cliché occurrence had beset itself on him.  His life flashed before his eyes.  He knew what people said about him~ he’s arrogant, he’s insufferable in his ability to keep himself emotionally detached from the people and the world around him.  But not in that moment. 

As he held the phone to his ear, urging John to stay back, his usual absolute certainty in all that he had ever done left him.  It was a feeling that was unfamiliar and unwelcome.  What if his plan didn’t work, what if he died after all?  Not one to place any faith in the notion of love (it’s all a magic trick, isn’t it?), he nonetheless came to the unlikely conclusion that it was that emotion that caused him to feel true fear for perhaps the first time in his life.  Not fear of possible death, he wasn’t scared to die, but fear of never seeing John again.  Fear of hurting the man who had already lost so much in his life.  Fear for himself of losing the man that the word “essential” could not even begin to describe his value to him.

Sherlock reaches down and touches his fingers gently to John’s temple.  He doesn’t want to disturb him, but to feel the warmth, the life that is so important to him beneath his fingertips, is something he can’t deny himself. He strokes his fingers through John’s hair, comforted by the softness he finds there and the rhythm of the motion.  When John finally stirs, he retrieves his hand and rests it back on the bed.  Aware of what he has put John through, he’s not certain that John would accept such a tender gesture from him.  True, John _is_ using him as a human pillow, not the act of someone who loathes him, but he could have inadvertently fallen asleep like that out of pure exhaustion.  

"I can't imagine my lap makes a very comfortable pillow, but then I've no doubt you're exhausted", Sherlock remarks lightly, voice rough from disuse.

John turns to look at him and seeing John’s face, _really seeing him_ for the first time in six months, creates in him feelings he’s only recently been learning how to identify.  And though at the moment he’s incapable of defining just what those emotions are, he knows they’re agreeable to him.

Sherlock feels tired and achy and at this point all he wants to do is go back to sleep, but as he meets John’s warm eyes he has no doubt all is forgiven, _he_ is forgiven, deserved or not.  As John takes Sherlock’s hand in his, Sherlock softly laces his long, slim fingers with his friend’s and molds their palms together.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than my other short chapters, but it feels complete to me. I hope it does to you, too.


	8. Together

_3 Months Later_

Pausing from his typing, John turned and looked over at Sherlock.  “Just mildly curious here, why have you taken to sitting in my chair?”

Sherlock, looking up from where he focused on his book, cocked an eyebrow and inquired “Does it bother you?”

For the two bachelors, some of the ease of cohabitation came from the division of certain spaces: Sherlock on the north side of the couch, John on the wide side of the desk, Sherlock always using the chair facing the telly.  Recently though, Sherlock had come to occupy John’s chair when John was at the desk working on his blog.  (“The Case of the Pickled Pepper, John?!”).  It wasn’t a bother really, it was just…different; Sherlock was a man of habit in certain things.

John shrugged.  “No, no, not at all, just wondering, that’s all.  I know how you like to keep certain things organized, sock indexes and all that.” 

“Well, if you _must_ know”, Sherlock responded, vaguely annoyed, “my eyesight isn’t what it used to be and the light cast from the fluorescents keeps my eyes from straining when I read the files.  I _am_ getting older, John.”

“Oh. Right, then.”  John’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.  It really didn’t make any difference to him. He did wonder why the inquiry had made Sherlock a little tetchy, perhaps he was embarrassed over having any sign of aging.  But he wasn’t curious enough to keep from turning his attention back to his writing without further comment.

Sherlock wasn't _entirely_ deceptive in his response to John, his eyes do get strained from all the reading he does. But what he would admit to himself and not to his flatmate was that he often chose to sit in John’s chair because from there he had an unobstructed view of John at work. He found it soothing to be able to just glance up and there John was.  He could watch the fingers pecking ineffectually at the keys, watch him gaze at the ceiling as though up there he would find written the right words to convey another of their adventures, ponder at the way his fringe fell down towards his eyes, inviting a familiar hand to brush it back.  

He had missed John greatly during their time apart. True, when needed he could close his eyes and envision every line, every freckle, every contour of John's face, but it could never replace being able to see him with his own eyes. To his surprise, being able rest his eyes on John, to be near John, now quelled some of the destructive fire in him and while describing what he felt as "calm" would be a stretch, he knew that having his dearest friend near him somehow made things... right.   
  
Before The Fall they Sherlock and John had never had a physically demonstrative friendship~ no casual bear hugs or an arm around the shoulder as he knew male friends were sometimes wont to do. Sure, there was the occasional shoulder pat or grasp of the other’s hand during a chase (solely for the purpose of running in sync, of course), but no one would ever mistake any physical gesture they made as affection.

Until now. 

Since Sherlock's “resurrection” they had each found that it was a natural, almost necessary, thing to touch each other, in small, familiar ways.  Sherlock rubbing John’s feet when they watched crap telly, a fond hug when John returned from a three-day conference in Edinburgh, John massaging Sherlock’s neck and shoulders after he’d been up all night researching a case.  There was an unspoken understanding that the need to reassure themselves of each other’s presence in their lives overrode any potential awkwardness physical contact might cause. 

________________________

John paused from his typing once again.  This time though, he rested his elbow on the desk, reaching up to rub at his jaw, deep in thought. 

Sherlock frowned.  “Having trouble, John?  The thesauruses are over on the shelf on the right side”, nodding his head toward the wall holding the mass of reference books.   “We have both the Miriam-Webster and Roget editions.  Of course, if you go online you can enter a sentence and the search engine will...”

“No, Sherlock” John interrupted, more sharply than he intended, “I don’t need the thesaurus.   Sorry, I just.” Looking discomfited, he had trouble meeting Sherlock’s direct gaze, pursing his lips as a rush of air escaped his lungs.  “I need to talk to you about something.”

Sherlock set his book down on his lap, folding his hands on top.  He shifted a bit.  He didn’t like it when people made such declarations, it usually meant he was about to be taken to task. Scanning quickly through his memory bank he couldn’t think of anything he might have done to upset John, but then, perception of his slights towards others had never been his area.

With a calm that belied the small pulse of anxiety coursing through him, after all, he has no desire to upset John, he ventured “Have I done something?”  Concerned seeped into his voice.

John looked startled.  “No, god no.  I just have something I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I’m finding it difficult”. 

“Well, just out with it then.”  Perplexing.

“Do you mind if we go sit on the couch?  I think it will be easier for me.”  John picked himself off his chair, heading to the couch. 

Sherlock placed his book on the side table, unfolded his long legs to stand and followed John to the worn old couch.  He wasn’t quite sure what to do once they got there, it wasn’t the norm for them to sit on the couch to just…talk.  He found his fingers starting to twitch, tapping his knee in mild agitation.

John was close enough that he could easily reach over and capture Sherlock’s fluttering hand.  Stilling it, he rested it on Sherlock’s knee, patted it reassuringly, and took back his own. 

Well then.  Sherlock willed himself into stillness.

Seeming to resolve himself to whatever he needed to say, John instead sat for a moment and absorbed the man that is Sherlock Holmes.  Took in the slightly unruly curls, the sharp eyes guilelessly returning his regard, the ridiculous cheekbones that he couldn’t help reserving some jealously for.  He truly is a beautiful man.

Briefly clearing his throat, John started to speak.  “Sherlock, I don’t want to make this any bigger a deal than it is, but there are some things that just shouldn’t be left unsaid.  I know you aren’t one much for sentiment, but I want you to know without any uncertainty that I…well, I love you.”

He stops for a moment, waiting for the fall out.  Gratefully, none was forthcoming; Sherlock waited patiently, watching him, seeming to know John was not finished.  Hmm, okay.  Right then.   

In a small rush, he continued; like many men, and a British man at that, he is not one given to emotional pronouncements.  “I don’t mean I’m head over heels in love with you, or anything like that, but you are without a doubt the most important person in my life by far.  When I thought I’d lost you, well, I don’t have the words to explain the grief your absence caused me.  I know this probably sounds a little silly to you, but too often I just didn’t know how I would make it another day without you. ” Remembering those dark days, John gave a small shudder, looking down to shield from view the naked emotion he knew had to reside on his face. 

“I can’t tell you how many times regret ate at me for not having told you what you meant to me, what you _mean_ to me. Then to almost lose you again when I shot you, I…I just don’t know, Sherlock, it was all too much. In case… in case something happens again, I just want you to know.”  Pulling his face back up to meet Sherlock’s, he was surprised to see an uncharacteristic softness there.   The nervousness in his chest slowly drained away as he read the understanding and acceptance in his friend’s eyes. 

Searching John’s face, memorizing those beloved features once again, Sherlock knew.  In that moment, with absolute certainty, he knew the epiphany he had experienced on the edge of St. Bart’s was true.  He was, contrary to the belief of so many, including himself, capable of love.  

Gently taking his best friend’s hand between his two, Sherlock held it, warm and giving.  Leaning over, he rested his cheek against John’s as he softly murmured into his ear “John. My John.”

 


End file.
